Lost Girls (Book One in the Academy Series)

Chapter Two: Reveal

Back in my room, I detach Wonder Woman from the outlet and edge around the room.

The plaster is Braille. I run my fingertips across dents where Sheila's hammer missed a nail, where she shifted her "art" to a higher perch. Along the wall over her bed are three framed concert posters. Her name tops the credits, along with glossy images of her playing a violin.

In the first one, she's barely 11.

Before I hit her footboard, my toes brush the vanity. Beneath it is a power cord. Her hairdryer and flat iron are still plugged in. I unplug them, exchanging beauty aids for the nightlight.

The sudden illumination is a shock, despite my responsibility for it. I'm startled by my reflection. In amber tones my brown hair shifts to auburn, my green eyes flash like the devil's. I stare at myself, at this messy girl with split ends whom I barely recognize.

Then I yank the cord from the wall.

Climbing onto Sheila's bed, I'm calmed by the satiny silk of her comforter. Despite her absence, this feels intrusive and weird.

At the top of the bed, I lean over. Beneath the window dividing our room, there's another outlet. I plug in the power cord, then use my makeshift flashlight to sweep the room.

Sheila's bed is made, looking as it did when I fell asleep. It was barely midnight, and now I'm certain she didn't come home.

My roommate's side could be displayed at a Bloomingdale's Home Store.

Mine is Goodwill.

I snagged the three-shelf bookcase from beside a dumpster my second day here. Now it's bloated with paperbacks and crammed between a tiny dresser and a nightstand. A sketchy thriller perches next to my digital alarm clock, with my cell phone serving as bookmark.

Buying the alarm was easier than keeping my phone charged—there's no service, so there's no point. We have Internet only in the library. Teachers here say isolation is part of the curriculum.

Setting the light atop my bed, I shuffle to our closet. I open the door partway, then yank the string.

I have less than a quarter of the real estate, but I can't complain. My jeans, leggings, t-shirts, socks, bras, and underwear are shoved into my dresser. All I have hanging up are a couple of second-hand leather jackets, my junior prom dress and the uniform from my old school.

And no, I don't have any idea why I brought the last two things with me either.

Sheila's section is an homage to her personas: high-fashion dresses, club kid glitter, a few outfits ideal for a well behaved, classically trained violinist to wear during recitals and tours. Both the shelf and half of the floor space are dominated by her shoes— mostly still in boxes with three-figure price tags. My kicks are scattered in one corner.

It looks just as it did yesterday.

Other than the time she disappeared last month, she's never been out this late. She often misses curfew—and gets away with it—but she always comes home.

I'm worried as I approach the thick rose-colored curtains. Pushing them open, I peer into the silent night. Three stories below, a boy is standing just outside the dorm.

This is odd. Someone waiting for or dropping off my roommate wouldn't be so blatant. Still, I hold my breath for a moment to see if Sheila emerges, if she was in the building even while I was searching our room.

Instead the boy looks up, smiling. I dart back, turning sideways to the wall.

When I get enough courage to look again, he is strolling casually away.

And then I get what's bothering me about him. It's below freezing and he doesn't have a coat, just a thin white tee. He's not even shivering.